Over the past few weeks, I have been
invited to a few sexy dance parties in the Queer community. My Facebook has been blowing up with invites
to underwear parties, backroom boogies, and tasty two steps. Each time I receive these invites, my heart
swells at the thought of them. I get a huge shit-eating grin on my face at the
thought of even being in the presence of these beautiful men. Just as quickly as the pitter patter of
possibility pulls my strings, and I am whisked away to my fantasy (which may
involve a lot of mood lighting, beards, and leather, by the way), I am abruptly
halted and handicapped by my reality: many of these spaces are inaccessible to
the Deliciously Disabled, and that is problematic.
I want to explore
what it feels like not to be able to directly access these spaces as a Person
with a Disability. How does it feel on
an emotional level? I also want to
examine what it would mean if these spaces considered accessibility, and what
exactly that would mean for the community as a whole.
Lack of access
for Persons with Disabilities is a constant fight. This is nothing new to any of us, nor is it
something that we will ever stop advocating for. There have been many moments where I have
had to decline a dance party because the venue can’t hold all my
amazingness. I just tell myself that
they’re not ready for all my jelly and move on.
But then I go home and imagine all that I might be missing. I turn on the music, attempting to drown it
out by dancing. No luck. The thoughts linger, hang and gnaw at me. If I am being honest, I am mourning the
maleness, accessing my masculinity, and the memories I wanted to make.
The deeper issue
for me lies in the fact, that by not having access to these spaces I am denied
the opportunity to safely show off my sexuality. I am denied the chance to be anonymous. I am denied the possibility of the prowl,
the chase, and rolling up in my chair to go in for the kill. I don’t get to look in your eyes with a half
smile and wheel away, waiting for you to follow me to the backroom. A lack of access leaves embers of lust, a
quenching desire that is never quite satiated.
These are the outlets where sex and sexuality is free and fun. For me, it is all forbidden. Stairways that lead to smoke-filled rooms
are just reminders that I am removed.
When I think of
accessible sex spaces and why they are critically important, I think of the
young queer cripple who lives at home with their parents, and who can’t get out
to be who they are. Having accessible
space to engage in sexuality would mean that if I chose to, I wouldn’t have to
host you; if I don’t feel like explaining every piece of my Palsy to you, I
don’t have to. It would mean that I
don’t have to attach a false sense of permanence to our play; there would be no
misinterpretations to be had.
Considering
accessibility in these spaces would strengthen the bond within the queer
community. Providing access to these
sexual sanctuaries would show the community all it is that they are
missing. Disability and difference would
soon be in demand. Instead of racing up the stairs holding hands on your way to
the backroom with that beautiful boy, you could have your hands on the back of
my chair, watching each revolution of my wheels up the ramp, reveling in what
might come.
Accessibility in
these spaces would remind me that the community considers disability a dish not
to merely to be tasted, but to be devoured.
Opening the door to disability in sexual
spaces allows for everyone to bask in the warm, red glow of desire (for some
reason, I assume that all sexy spaces are lit in this way). Failing to do so
leaves the cute cripple crankily craving, but most unfortunately, it leaves the
Queer community out in the cold on all that could be when it comes to
disability.
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